Our Daily Bread
by threedays
Summary: "Dean – MY Dean, my big brother, who doesn't even cry when he gets stitches – is crying over some crispy bread heels." Ten-year-old Sam didn't mean to make his brother cry, but sometimes it all gets to be too much.
1. Sam

_Chapter One is from Sam's point of view. Dean is 14 and Sam is 10. These aren't my kids; I'm only babysitting._

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><p><strong>Our Daily Bread - Chapter One<strong>

_SAM_

"You left the bread open."

I don't look up. Dean sounds ticked, but I don't give a crap. It's not like he's done anything but pick at me since Dad left all those days ago.

"Sam. Why'd you leave the bread open?"

I huff a sigh. "I didn't _mean_ to," I say, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

When Dean doesn't immediately answer, I scramble for the TV remote so I can pick what we watch, at least until Dean wrestles the remote away from me. I flip past the news – somebody died in a car crash – and the weather channel – somebody died in a storm – and a cop drama – somebody died in a shooting. It's a wonder there's anybody left out there for my dad to save.

I settle on The Rugrats, and it takes me a little while to realize Dean's not arguing with me, even though he hates this show. He'd rather watch something about cars, even though he won't be old enough to drive _legally_ for a couple more years. Or some movie with cute girls but no plot. Or a hunting show because even though they usually only hunt deer or turkey on those shows, Dean says hunting is hunting and there are tactics to be learned from watching somebody sneak up on a deer, whose survival instincts are just as strong as those of a werewolf.

I twist in my seat, wondering what Dean's doing – and my heart starts hammering in my chest.

Dean is still standing next to the bathroom door, in front of the sink where we keep our toothbrushes, along with the bread and peanut butter because this motel doesn't have a kitchenette like some of the nicer ones do.

He hasn't moved from the spot and he's still holding the open bread bag.

I can see him in the mirror and he's –

"Dean?" Even to my own ears, my voice comes out sounding really small.

He doesn't answer me, but I can see his shoulders shaking and I scramble off the end of the bed and dart toward him. When I'm standing two or three steps behind him, I stop again, not sure what to do.

Dean doesn't cry. Ever. I have been alive ten years and I have never, not once, seen any evidence at all that he even _can _cry. Dad can cry – one time Dean got bad hurt and I saw two whole tears escape from Dad's left eye – but not Dean – not Dean, not ever.

"Dean?" I try again. "Whats'a matter?"

Dean seems to realize by my voice that I've moved much closer, and he scrubs his sleeve across his eyes.

"Nothing," he says forcefully. He slams the bread bag down on the counter. I can't believe he's this upset about bread. There were only two pieces left anyways and they were both heels.

"I was in a – in a hurry to eat," I rush to explain. "I was really hungry when I got home from school today. Will Hart took my lunch and dunked it in the toilet because I'm the new kid."

I expect Dean to flare up with anger at this revelation – or at least look at me in sympathy. But he is staring at the bread bag with its two hardened, crispy lumps of bread that have been left out in the air for almost two hours. It took Dean that long to get home from the detention he got for sneaking out of school to pick me up when I was sick last week. His shoulders are still moving funny and the rest of him isn't moving at all.

"Dean?" I ask. "What did _you_ eat for lunch?" And I get this sick feeling in my stomach like the peanut butter I ate on the last of the _good_ bread is moving around in there.

"Go watch your show, Sam," Dean says, but now I can even hear it in his voice. Dean – _my_ Dean, my big brother, who doesn't even cry when he gets _stitches_ – is crying over some crispy bread heels.

I close the gap between us and take the bread bag out from under his hand. I touch the bread inside, but he's right. It's crispy and dry. It's not something you'd wanna eat.

"Dean …"

He spins around, tears evident on his cheeks, and punches his fist into the bathroom door so hard it slams open and bounces all the way back closed again. I can't help but jump at the noise, but I'm too startled to cry. My stomach hurts.

"I said go watch your stupid show, Sammy!" Dean shouts, inches from my face. I scamper back to the bed, not eager to find out whether he will hit me like he just did the door.

I wouldn't hit him back if he did. Just for today.

Dean stalks across the room and grabs his jacket. I feel my throat get tight. I hate when Dean storms out after a fight and then I can't even make up with him. All I can do is stare blankly at the TV and worry about whether my brother's safe and whether he hates me and whether I'm a bad little brother.

Tonight I don't have to wonder. I ruined the bread. Before Dean even got a sandwich. I didn't even _think! _I'm a terrible brother.

This is when tears start to form in my eyes, too.

The motel door opens, but it doesn't close and after a minute, I glance that direction. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding onto the knob, and his shoulders are heaving and while I watch, he throws up, right there on the sidewalk. Then he slams the door with him still on this side of it and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Dean –"

"Shut up, Sammy."

"Dean, I'm real sorry about the bread –"

Dean breathes in and out, too fast and too loud, for a second and then he checks the locks. When he's sure we're closed safely back in, he goes to the other bed – Dad's bed when Dad's here – and stretches out across it on his stomach.

"It's okay," he says, which is his most frequent lie. "I wasn't hungry."

I keep looking at Dean, but he never moves. So I turn back to the Rugrats, but I'm not really watching. I think I hate the taste of peanut butter from now on. I think I hate this stupid motel room and the stupid Rugrats and my dad for being gone. I know there isn't any more money for bread. I know what's been taken from Dean, he'll never get back.

After a minute, Dean drags himself back off his bed and comes to sit next to me on mine. He puts his hand on my shoulder, heavy, for just a second. "I'll take care of Will Hart tomorrow," he promises.

I sniffle, scrubbing away the one tear that has managed to fall, and duck out from under his grip. "It's okay," I tell my brother. "You don't have to."


	2. Dean

Here is Dean's POV. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Our Daily Bread – Chapter 2<strong>

_DEAN_

I might have just broken the wall in the bathroom where the doorknob hits.

Also, Sam's heart.

And the third knuckle on my right fist.

When I punched the door, Sam startled, his whole body jerking in place and his eyes going wide. Now he's staring and I hear his sharp gasp of breath, but I can't stop my voice from tearing out: "I said go watch your stupid show, Sammy!"

He scrambles to comply, like maybe I'm going to hit him the way I just hit the door. Instead I focus on breathing and on eradicating the embarrassing, baby tears that keep slipping down my face.

_Out._

Got to get the hell out, get away. From Sam's fear and disappointment. From the dent I know I just made in the bathroom wall. From the open bread bag and this friggin' pain in my stomach and the fear that's ripping out of nowhere to choke me, _where is Dad, why isn't Dad back, what if Dad doesn't come back – _

I'm across the room, I'm grabbing my jacket, I'm yanking open the door –

_What if Dad doesn't –_

Shit!

If Dad doesn't come back tonight, tomorrow there won't be anything to eat. There won't be anything to feed Sammy. There won't be any money for another night in the motel. We'll be out on the street, we'll be hungry, we'll be cold, Sam will be looking at me with those hurt, scared eyes, pleading, _Fix it, Dean …_

I grip the doorknob to keep myself standing, heave water and what little food I've had today onto the sidewalk. Once. Twice. Till there's nothing left in me, which doesn't take long.

_My stomach hurts my head hurts I want Dad where is Dad what if Dad – _

Night. Dark. Evil things. Close and lock the door.

_Please, Sammy, don't talk about it. Don't draw attention to the puke on the sidewalk. Don't ask me if I'm all right. There is no answer to that question. Please, Sam - _

"Dean?"

"Shut up, Sammy."

"Dean, I'm real sorry about the bread …" In this thin little voice like he's six instead of ten. I can't keep up, can't get my breath, can't stop thinking, stop asking –

Shit!

But it's my job to keep us safe, so I double check the door lock before I crawl onto Dad's bed, which doesn't smell like Dad because he's been gone too many nights. Behind me I hear hitching breath and the start of sniffles and misery rolls through me. I didn't mean to yell at him. I didn't mean to yell at all, I just … I … _what if Dad. .. how will I … where will we … _

"It's okay," I say with as much big-brotherly cool as I can muster. Then add the biggest lie I've ever told: "I wasn't hungry." Surprised to find that now it's actually true.

I hear the Rugrats prattling on and I hear Sammy's breath and I think about the way he jumped, about the look on the face when I hit the door and yelled at him. It was stupid that he ruined the bread, but he's ten and he's forgetful and I know that. I didn't mean to yell at him. Scare him.

_Get up. Take care of Sammy. Tend to Sammy._

I try and try, but it takes a long time before my body cooperates with my brain. I crawl off the bed, clumsy and fumbling, to sit next to Sam. It begins to register that he mentioned a bully. Somebody threw his lunch away – Sammy didn't have lunch today, either. He's only a kid. I can't believe some idiot ruined his lunch. Good bread from the middle of the loaf. Peanut butter. There was even a banana, the last of the fruit. I hurt. I'm not as mad as I should be, I just hurt and it scares me. I should be mad enough to rip somebody apart and instead I'm acting like a chick. I hear Sam sniffle and I man up, laying a hand across his shoulder.

"I'll take care of Will Hart tomorrow."

He ducks my hand and scrubs a tear off his cheek. "It's okay," he says. "You don't have to."

All at once I feel like I could puke again. Sam's never _not _wanted me to handle a bully for him. I've scared him, yelling at him. I've hurt his feelings. He doesn't trust me anymore. He doesn't want –

I struggle not to let my own breath hitch and when I look up, Sam's gazing at me with watery but trusting eyes.

"I ain't mad at you, Dean," he says, doing that thing he can sometimes do where he knows what I'm thinking when I haven't told him.

_You should be. You didn't have lunch today. I yelled at you. I scared you. How am I going to take care of you if Dad – why can't I stop thinking that Dad might not – God, Sammy –_

"Okay." My voice comes out little. I clear my throat and square my shoulders. I can't quite find the hunter in me tonight.

"I just don't want you to get more detention for fighting a bully," he says. And turns back to his show.

'Cause if I get more detention, he might screw up again. I can hear him loud and clear. I want to tell him he's wrong, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't really him I was pissed at when I freaked out tonight. But I don't know how to bring it up and I don't know how to bring it up and then it's too late. Sam's fallen asleep draped backward across the bed. I hear his stomach growl and for a second I'm just sad. Then all of a sudden I get really, really mad. I hate myself for losing my cool, I hate throwing up, I hate tears, I hate the Rugrats, I hate how bread reacts to air, I hate my dad, I hate this night.

The Rugrats prattle on and Sam's stomach growls again or maybe it's mine and I hear the cars on the road pass and pass the motel parking lot, but nobody ever pulls in. I'm left alone with my sleeping brother and my own messed-up head, left alone with: w_hat if Dad … where is Dad … how will I … what will we … I don't know how … _

_Somebody help …_

_Somebody please …_


	3. John

So here is the final chapter - John's POV. Thanks for sticking with me!

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><p><strong>Our Daily Bread, Chapter Three<strong>

_JOHN_

This is not a good night.

I'm getting back three days later than I meant to and worn out from the hunt from Hell. I almost didn't catch the ghost this time, barely missed having it catch me. I think I must be under a curse. I've had two flat tires and alternator trouble, a touch of the flu, spilled salt, and not one of the lighters or matches I brought with me would spark when the chips were down.

On top of all that, I just stepped in something nasty on the sidewalk in front of the motel door.

I go in quiet so I don't wake the boys. I can't help but smile a little when I see them. Sam's asleep across the foot of the bed, feet dangling over the side, legs so long already at 10 that the tips of his filthy socks touch the carpet.

Dean's sacked out a little further up the bed, arm curled loosely across his stomach. Both boys are dressed and the TV's tuned to Nick at Nite, which means Dean must have been in charge of the remote, because _Mork and Mindy_ is on and Dean loves that show.

I quickly take stock of the room. It always makes me nervous to be away from the boys for so long, and if I'd known the hunt was going to drag on for three extra nights, I would have dropped them off with Jim or Bobby. But I know Dean can handle himself in my absence and here's the proof. Everything's fine. The room is in one piece and so are both boys.

I am confident that I am the only entity who could ever enter this room without waking Dean. Still, he begins to stir. Not wanting him to come entirely awake, I snag some clean clothes and creep toward the bathroom. I'd like to shower away some of the dirt and grime rather than take it to bed with me. On the counter by the bathroom sink, I see the bread bag, open, with two pieces of bread left inside. Good. The boys must have forgotten to close it after dinner, which means they both ate till they were full. The peanut butter jar looks almost empty. We'll have to hit the grocery store tomorrow. Thank goodness I got back when I did. Peanut butter sandwiches might not be the most conventional of dinner foods, but at least my boys have never gone hungry.

As I enter the bathroom, I take notice of what a crummy motel we're staying in. The shower curtain's got mildew spreading up from the bottom, and the toilet seat is chipped. When I close the door behind me, I find that there's a doorknob-shaped hole in the wall, no doubt from that door getting slammed open by some quarreling lovers who stopped here for the night. Damn fools who can't handle their emotions.

I make the shower quick because I know the sound of the water will most likely wake Dean. Sure enough, when I emerge from the bathroom, energy flagging, I find Dean awake, standing next to the window. He turns when he hears me come out and his gaze finds mine. Tired as I am, and looking at him across a darkened room, I'm sure I'm imagining the depth of the shadows around his eyes, the haunted expression within them.

Still. I check. "Hey, Son. Everything okay while I was gone?"

He looks from me to Sammy, then past me toward the bathroom counter before making eye contact again.

"Things are just fine, Dad," he says in this strange tone of voice, sort of flat and almost mocking. There's a slight tremor in his movements and I get a little uneasy, but I'm worn out from the hunt and I figure Dean's just tired and cranky from getting woken up.

"Good, then," I tell him. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"

He nods. I muss his hair as I pass him, falling sideways across my own bed and letting my eyes close. I'm almost asleep when I hear a strange noise in the room. My eyes peel open again and I force my aching body to sit up.

The noise is Dean scraping the last of the peanut butter out of the jar with a plastic knife.

I smile. Fourteen-year-old boys are always hungry. "We'll go shopping tomorrow, Dean," I tell him.

"'Kay, Dad," he says roughly, then licks some peanut butter off the knife. He doesn't glance in my direction and I wonder if this is one of those teenage rebellion things people tell me to look out for, or whether Dean's just sleepy in the four a.m. darkness. I decide the latter makes more sense. Glad to be back, and knowing my boys are okay, I close my eyes and drift toward sleep, leaving my eldest son awake, eating peanut butter without bread and standing in the dark.


End file.
